


With a Little Help from Aladdin, the Genie, and Puppets

by Amy_de_lABC



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Puppets, Sock Puppets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy_de_lABC/pseuds/Amy_de_lABC
Summary: Russell and Holmes, still unmarried, meet up with some old friends and some new ones, all of whom help them to discover what they feel. AU-ish, with references to canon.





	With a Little Help from Aladdin, the Genie, and Puppets

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They're not mine.
> 
> Setting: This story is set between "Justice Hall" and "The Game". However, in order to understand what's going on, you have to pretend that nothing pertaining to the Russell/Holmes pairing has actually happened in the books except Holmes falling for Russell. Well, actually, she's fallen for him, too, but she doesn't know it yet. Get it?
> 
> Readers: Got it.
> 
> Me: Good. Enjoy!

"Holmes?" I asked, attempting to sound plaintive. Perhaps that would make him more willing to acquiesce to my request.

He looked over at me. "Yes?"

"Holmes, I'm exhausted, hungry, and dirty. Don't you think we could…"

"Russell, exhausted, hungry, and dirty is the natural state of a Bedouin male, as you ought to know very well by now."

"But we're not working for Mycroft this time. Couldn't we take it easy for once? Or at least, easier? We are supposed to be on vacation."

"It's not my fault you chose a disguise which would make you uncomfortable."

"As if I would even _consider_ being a female in this country," I sniffed. "You know what it's like for them, Holmes. Let's take a break. Please."

"Oh, very _well_ , Russell. But you get to ask the people inside the tent for supper."

"Gladly," I said, and marched over to the canvas shelter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes wander off to look at some small plant or other.

I knocked on the tent door, if it could be called knocking. Then I stood and waited, hearing noises inside.

The flap opened, and I took a breath to speak. But what I saw in front of me made the words die in my throat.

It took me a moment to collect my wits, but just as I was again getting ready to say something, the voice of the man inside the tent said, so softly I almost didn't catch the word, "Amir?"

"Ali!" I responded, and his face bloomed in a happy, if incredulous, smile, which my lips must have echoed.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, and then, before I could answer, "Mahmoud! Brother, come and see!"

Something in his voice brought the other man at a run. "Ali? What is…" He stopped abruptly as he saw me. Then he, too, grinned broadly. "Well, if it isn't our old friend Amir! But where is your Holmes?"

The question caught me. Where _was_ Holmes? "Oh, he's off looking at something," I said. "He'll probably be along in a minute or so."

"Sent you to do the dirty work, did he?" asked Mahmoud with a knowing smile. I didn't even have to nod.

"Why are you here?" asked Ali after a moment's silence.

"Well, actually, I was going to see if whoever lived in the tent had some food that we could share and maybe a bedroll or two to spare. We just became Bedu yesterday, and we didn't have everything we needed." **(A/N: Yes, I know it's a bad excuse. Sorry. I'm not good at stuff like that. Just ignore it, okay?)**

"But what are you doing _here_ , in the desert, as Amir? Why aren't you in England?"

"And of course you and Holmes will share our supper, and coffee too. As for lodgings, we still have the tent from when you were here last time. That should do admirably, should it not?" Mahmoud intervened.

I thanked him and assured him that the tent would do very well indeed. Then I turned back to Ali.

"To answer your question," I said, "I have finally convinced Holmes to allow us a real vacation."

Ali looked surprised, and I grinned. "Strange, isn't it? When he agreed, Mrs Hudson insisted on checking his temperature."

"I don't blame Mrs Hudson," said Mahmoud. "Ali, we ought to be getting started on supper. Amir, why don't you go find Holmes and bring him here?"  
"Don't you want me to help?" I protested.

"No, that's all right. You just get Holmes."

I shrugged, consenting. Then I had a thought, and smiled wickedly.

"Uh-oh," murmured Ali, mock worried. "I know that look."

I laughed. "I'm not going to tell Holmes it's you. That ought to give him a nasty shock."

"And revenge for going off and leaving you with the work," agreed Mahmoud, betraying his stern tone with twinkling eyes.

"Yes, that too," I admitted.

Ali shook his head in amusement, and the two retreated into their tent while I went to find Holmes.

* * *

I found my partner sitting on a rock, staring blankly at the horizon. It was obvious his mind was elsewhere.

I moved over and plopped down on the ground beside him. He looked slightly startled at my sudden appearance, but acknowledged my presence with a brief nod and continued to stare.

"Holmes?" I asked after a moment. I didn't want to disturb him, but it might be a good idea to let him know that we now had arrangements for supper and somewhere to stay the night.

"Hmmm?" He didn't turn his head, but I knew he was listening.

"The people inside the tent"—I had to hold back a grin as I said this—"said that we can share their food. They also have an extra tent."

"Good," he murmured, still not looking at me.

I fell silent, unsure of what else to say.

A while later, I heard a faint call. "Time to eat!"

I looked over at Holmes. "Coming?"

"What? Oh—er…yes."

I frowned. This was most unlike my partner. "What's on your mind, Holmes?"

At this, he started, looking, for some reason, embarrassed and guilty. "Nothing," he said evasively, and went off in the direction of the tent. I followed, still scowling.

* * *

As we came into view of Ali and Mahmoud's home, I tried not to smirk in anticipation of the prank we would play on Holmes.

The door was open, and it was obvious that we were to walk right in.

"Interesting trust, for Bedu," muttered Holmes as we did so, and again I had to refrain from smirking as I contemplated what was to come.

To my utter astonishment, Holmes was too preoccupied to notice the familiarity of the voice that called, "Ah, hello, Amir!" in the darkness, nor the fact that the voice had called me Amir. I resolved to ask him later about what was so dominating his attention.

Our eyes adjusted to the light, he thrust his thought aside, and it was then that I received the distinct pleasure of seeing Sherlock Holmes lose his dignity.

Holmes blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he opened his mouth and closed it, opened it and closed it once more. Then he burst out laughing. All three of us joined him, in a round of merriment which would have made any passers-by wonder exactly what was going on in the tent, and whether it had anything to do with alcohol.

Finally we settled down, and Holmes looked at us.

"A fine group of pranksters you are," he said.

"Oh, no," said Ali cheerfully. "Your Amir may take all the credit for this."

For a second I thought I saw Holmes' eyes flick to him with sadness in them, but before I could look more closely, it was gone, and Holmes was watching me again.

"Ah, so it was your idea, was it, Russell?" he asked. I noticed that he used my real name, thus giving the other two permission to speak freely.

"Yes, Holmes, it was. And if I may say so, I have now had the honour—take note, Ali and Mahmoud; you have had it too—of seeing the Almighty Sherlock Holmes look like a fish." This sent the other two into snickers again, and, to use a cliché, I am sure that I would have been dead a dozen times over by Holmes' hand if looks could kill.

"A fish? Whatever do you mean, Russell? Do I normally resemble a sea creature?"

"Actually, you usually look like a dog," I answered brazenly, "but just then, you did indeed possess a remarkable resemblance to a fish." I did a spirited imitation of his oral antics. Ali and Mahmoud, despite their normally taciturn personalities, dissolved into gales of helpless laughter, and Holmes glared at me as ferociously as if I were his sworn enemy.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to," he said, stiffly polite, although I could tell that he did understand and was choosing to ignore the fact.

"Of course, my dear Holmes, I am referring to your extreme astonishment when you discovered that we had run into none but our old travelling companions," I said sweetly, and gave Ali and Mahmoud a very obvious wink.

He sighed. "I can see I am going to get nowhere with this, with all three of you against me."

"No, no," Ali demurred. "We are not against you; we are only finding amusement at your expense."

"And that's not being against me?" muttered Holmes, but Ali continued without a pause.

"It is only your Amir who is against you." This time I saw Holmes shoot him a distinctly anguished look. The other man looked back with a raised eyebrow; my friend and partner nodded slightly, looking resigned, and shot a glance towards me. I wondered what they had just said in this silent conversation of theirs.

After a slightly awkward silence—I felt sure Mahmoud had seen the exchange as well, and neither he nor I wanted to ask about it—Ali rose and rummaged in a pile of objects for a moment, before straightening. Somewhat to my surprise, he held an oil lamp, looking rather like the genie's lamp in the well-known fairy tale. Even more to my surprise, he began to rub it as he walked back over to us.

"What…?" I began, but he silenced me with a shake of the head and continued rubbing.

I looked at Mahmoud, to see how he was taking this. Strangely enough, he sat there grinning. I mused on this for a second before turning my attention back to Ali. He was still rubbing—

—and then I was completely bowled over as a voice issued out of the lamp. It was small and high, with a faint Arabic accent.

"Yes, my master Ali Baba. What do you need?"

For a second I could, as Mrs Hudson would say, have been knocked over with a feather. As the 'genie' spoke again, however, I realised what this must be.

"Speak, Master Ali! Speak for your faithful genie!" said the small voice, while I watched Ali's mouth carefully. Yes—there! A twitch of the lips, and again—there!

I began to laugh, and Holmes joined me, as did Mahmoud. The lamp, however, kept speaking, with mock indignation.

"Are these guests of yours, Master, who laugh at a poor, bound genie? They are quite rude!"

This, of course, only gained more laughter, and restored the fellow-feeling.

A small blue head popped up out of the lamp, and we fair roared. Somehow I noted, through my blurry vision, that one of Ali's hands had disappeared under the base of the lamp, no doubt controlling the puppet.

"How rude!" the genie said, and retreated into his lamp, obviously wounded. Then, 'Master Ali', too, began to laugh.

RussellHolmes. was quite late when we finally parted company for the night. We had agreed that I would have the small tent to myself, just as I had the time before, and so I bid the men good night—in my own fashion.

"Good night, all of you. I'm going to bed," I said with a yawn, and then I addressed Ali, adding innocently, "Good night, Aladdin."

Mahmoud snickered.

"Good night, fair Jasmine," his brother replied smoothly, looking gallant, and then suddenly winced and shot an apologetic glance at Holmes, who nodded slightly and smiled—no harm done. But no harm done with what? That remark? And why, if so, should what Ali had said upset Holmes?

I couldn't for the life of me figure it out. One more thing to ask Holmes about, I thought, and, with a grin at the other three, took myself off to bed.

* * *

Unfortunately, Mother Nature didn't see fit to cooperate with me, because after several hours, I still had not slept a wink. Finally I sighed and got up, hoping a walk would help.

I stepped into the surprisingly warm night air and moved towards the area where I had found Holmes earlier. Sitting down on the rock, I looked at the faint shapes which were objects around me, and then at the stars, not really seeing any of it.

Which could explain my startled state when a voice spoke in my ear a moment later.

"Hello."  
I gasped and nearly fell off my perch. Strong, dark arms caught me and helped me to regain my seat.

"My goodness, Ali," I said with a shaky laugh, my heart hammering. "You certainly gave me a fright."

White teeth flashed; even in this gloom, there was enough light for me to recognize a grin. "Sorry, Miriam," replied the shadow behind me.

I was about to continue when I noticed something.

"So it's Mary now, hmm?"

"Yes," he agreed. "For the time being. You need to be a girl for this discussion."

"What discussion?" I demanded, suddenly suspicious.

He grinned again. "Why did you think I was out here instead of sleeping?"

"So what are we discussing?"  
"Your Holmes."

I waited, but he didn't elaborate. "What about him?" I asked irritably after a few moments.

I heard a sigh. "Mary, he loves you," he said at last, in English.

"Of course he does," I said, befuddled. "We're quite good friends."

"You are smarter than this. He loves you as a man loves a woman."

I stared at the man for several numb seconds, and then let out a snort. "Don't be ridiculous, Ali. He loves me as a friend, and perhaps as a teacher. Maybe even as a father. Nothing more."

"Miriam—Mary—think about it. I think you witnessed our conversation earlier. Did you not see the way he looked at me when I said, 'your Amir'?" Ali sighed. "His Amir…his Mary…he wishes. Oh, how he wishes that were true."

"Stop!" I said, now becoming alarmed. "He doesn't wish that. He doesn't wish anything like that!" With an effort, I calmed myself, and, before he could go on, desperately changed the subject. "That trick you did tonight with the genie puppet was interesting. Will you teach me?"  
He gave me a look which plainly said that we would continue this discussion later, and then said, quite calmly, "Of course I will teach you."

And he did, starting that very moment. For an hour or so that night, and then whenever there were moments without either of the other two watching, he instructed me in the art of speaking without moving my lips and in causing my voice to sound as if it was coming from somewhere else. He seemed to feel my reluctance to let the others know, for he never so much as mentioned it in front of them. I myself didn't understand why I didn't want it known; perhaps I was afraid they would laugh at me. In any event, the secret stayed hidden, and I progressed as the days went on.

There was also, inevitably, the matter of Holmes. He didn't seem to feel or even notice it (for which I was extremely grateful), but there was a new discomfort around him. I could not forget what Ali had said, and still occasionally brought up, but I eventually put it down to the fact that anyone would be uneasy, having had that said to them.

One day Ali held me back as I was leaving the campfire, heading for bed. Holmes and Mahmoud had already entered the men's tent.

"You have become very good at this, Amir," he said with a smile (I was always Amir to him, unless we were discussing Holmes).

I smiled back. "Thank you."

"Ah…" He hesitated. "I have something for you." I must have looked surprised, because he grinned. "Yes, I know," was the answer to my unspoken comment. "But you need it now." He held out something dark and soft—a sock, I saw, and wondered what this was for.

"Er…Ali…"

"What?"

"It's a sock."

He laughed. "Look more closely."

I did so, and found that it had two buttons sewn to it. I was about to ask when I realised what it was. Sliding it onto my hand, I manoeuvred it so that I could open and close its 'mouth'.

"A puppet!" I exclaimed in delight, and made it say, "Thank you for bringing me to life, Aladdin."

"You are most welcome," replied Ali, sweeping the puppet a bow.

I laughed, and was going to say something else when a call came from inside the tent.

"Ali!"

Coming!" he said, and then, "Good night, Amir."

"Good night, Aladdin," I responded with a grin, and he disappeared inside the tent.

* * *

For the next week or so, I practised with the puppet whenever I had a moment alone. It was a welcome thing, because when I talked to it I felt as if I was having a conversation not with a puppet that I was controlling, but with my subconscious self. And as soon as this began, the puppet informed me that Ali was right about Holmes. I was inclined to disbelieve this, but I began to wonder. After all, why else would he look at Ali so sadly when he mentioned 'your Amir'? Why else would that remark about Jasmine upset Holmes? Small things like this were my only clues, but I began to think that perhaps it was true.

One day, when I was feeling particularly doubtful, I brought up the subject with the puppet.

"What am I going to do?" I asked wearily. "I really think you might be correct about this, but if you are, what do I do? Today I caught him looking at me. Just…watching. But he never just watches, not without a reason, and when I turned towards him, he looked away. It's your fault I'm worried about this, yours and Ali's, so you get to tell me: What am I going to do?"

"Tell him you love h…" the puppet started to reply. Unfortunately, it didn't get to finish the sentence, because my voice died in my throat as the blinding revelation struck me.

I stared; my grasp went limp and the puppet fell to the ground. I felt as if someone had hit me in the face with a brick, and along with the blow had come one thought, which slowly made its way through my foggy mind and stuck there.

I loved Holmes.

I loved him.

Of course!

"How could I be so stupid!" I said loudly, bending to pick up the toy.

"You are not stupid, Russell," said a voice behind me, and who else would it be except Holmes? I wondered wildly how much he had heard, and was therefore relieved by his next remark.

"What has caused you to disbelieve in your own intelligence?"  
I swallowed hard, and I didn't even need to pick the puppet up; I heard its voice—my own heavily disguised tones—in my mind.

Tell him.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my fingers around the cloth of the puppet and began an act.

"Good morning," said the puppet, and yawned. Then it noticed Holmes. "Oh, hello, Mr…er…"

"Holmes," I supplied.

"Oh, you're Mr Holmes," it said, turning to me for a second with interest (as much interest as a sock with buttons for eyes can show, at least). Then it looked back at him. "In that case, Mary has something to tell you."

"What? No, I…" I stopped, feigning confusion. "Oh, that." I attempted to make myself blush, uncertain that it would work but willing to try. While I did so, I bent to whisper in the puppet's ear, shooting a glance at Holmes as I did so. He looked intrigued and amused, and I wondered briefly if the amusement was for the puppetry or the blush.

"What?" asked the sock, pushing itself closer as if it wanted to hear me better.

I sighed dramatically. "You tell him."  
"I can't!"

"Please. I can't either."

"It's not my business," protested the puppet.

"It is your business if I say it is," I informed it, looking stern.

There was a silence; I looked quickly at Holmes. He was looking quite curious by now, so I made sure to have the puppet look as if it was hesitating.

"Fine," it said reluctantly after a moment. Then it turned to Holmes, who appeared expectant. I nearly burst into hysterical laughter at the sheer ludicrousness of his situation. He didn't know what he was getting himself into by not stopping me.

The puppet took a deep breath, steeling me as much as itself. Then it said, clearly and quietly, "Mary wants me to tell you that she loves you."

Holmes froze. I waited, but he said nothing, staring at the simple black sock as if it were a two-headed dragon which had suddenly appeared in front of him.

There was silence. I didn't dare move, much less speak. Even breathing seemed risky.

Still silence. By now I was absolutely positive that I had made a large mistake. I was also blushing of my body's own accord.

Absolute silence.

That was it, then. Ali had been wrong. I lowered my head into my hands, embarrassed beyond belief at my presumption and stupidity.

That broke the spell. Slowly, very, very quietly, Holmes asked, "Do you…mean that, Russ?"

The question startled me, and it must have showed, for he came to kneel beside me as my head came up.

I looked at him tentatively, unsure of what to say. With difficulty, I asked, "Mean what?"  
"What the puppet said."

Biting my lip, I considered. He didn't seem to be angry with me, much less hate me. In fact, he seemed to be quite willing to renew the friendship. Yet would it ever be the same? Might it not be easier just to lie, say that it was only an act, and go about my business as usual?

But no, I couldn't do that. I owed him honesty at least. I took a deep breath and nodded.

And then his lips were on mine—oh, thank goodness—and I had no more room for thought.

When he let go, I couldn't speak. I simply smiled as he put his arms around me. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I let him hold me, stroke my hair, rest his head on mine. It was only when he murmured, "My Russell," that I moved, and that merely to begin laughing.

He was puzzled, but I couldn't help it—the thought of my alarm at Ali's suggestion was too ridiculous for me not to laugh. I remembered the Arab's words ("…his Amir…his Mary…he wishes. Oh, how he wishes that were true") and giggled helplessly.

After a few minutes, I calmed enough to explain, albeit hesitantly, the nocturnal conference. I was afraid he might be angry with Ali for telling me about what had, I was fairly certain, been a confidence between the men (whether Mahmoud had been told, I didn't know). However, he seemed somewhat amused at the idea, for which I was thankful.

"…and he taught me, and I've been practising ever since," I ended.

"Ah," said Holmes, adding, "I really ought to be at least frustrated at Ali for telling you, but under the circumstances, I don't believe that would be fair."

I laughed, and nodded against his shoulder.

A few more minutes passed, and then Holmes said, "Tell me, Russell, what is your puppet's name?"

"Um…" I was about to tell him that I had never named the puppet, but then I thought of something. With an impish grin, I raised my head to look him in the eye.

"The puppet's name," I said, "is Sherlock."

* * *

It was time to leave. We had stayed as long as we could, but we truly needed to get back to England.

Ali and Mahmoud stood outside the tent with us, bidding us farewell.

"Goodbye, Mahmoud," I said with a smile. He smiled back, clasped my hand briefly, and then went to say goodbye to Holmes.

I pulled Ali aside.

"I just want to thank you," I said quietly. "Without you, we might never have figured things out."

"Oh, I think you would have figured them out eventually,' he said. "You are intelligent, Am—Mary. I only helped things along slightly."

"But you deserve our thanks." Holmes came up behind me, putting his arm around my shoulders.

I nodded. "What you did was truly a service."

He grinned at us. "You are my brothers—ah—sister and—er…" I laughed at his confusion, and then said firmly, "Family."

"Yes," he agreed. "Family."

Impulsively, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He flushed, but didn't object in the least. On the contrary, he looked quite pleased.

"Not transferring your affections on me, are you, Russell?" asked Holmes, looking mock hurt.

I snickered. "No," I reassured him, letting my head droop sideways onto his shoulder. But perhaps Ali could find a pretty Arab woman to marry instead. I'm sure she would be almost as good a wife as I will be."

Ali choked. "You're getting married?"

Holmes and I exchanged grins. "Why, yes," I said innocently. "Did we forget to mention that part?"

"I liked it better when you were making fun of him," grumbled the other man.

"Why does the fact surprise you?" asked Holmes.

Ali looked up. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "Good question."

I shrugged.

There was a silence, and then Holmes sighed. "We need to be on our way," he said. "We won't get back in time if we don't go soon."

"All right," said Ali. "Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye," Holmes said.

"Have a safe journey home."

"Insh'allah," replied Holmes. He smiled, shook Ali's hand, and walked away.

After a moment, he turned back to me. "Coming, Russell?"

I hesitated.

"Goodbye," Ali said, and gave me a gentle push in Holmes' direction.

"Goodbye," I answered, and then, very softly, "Goodbye, Aladdin."

He grinned at me one last time, and then I went over to Holmes, and together, hand in hand, we walked towards home.

* * *

**Epilogue**

I clapped and cheered as the curtain went down.

"Mother, Mother, how was that?" cried little William, running out from behind the tiny stage into my arms. Judith followed, at a more sedate pace but still with excitement written all over her features.

"That was wonderful, both of you!" I said with a smile, gathering both, puppets and all, close to me. Then I raised my eyebrows at Holmes. "Wasn't it?"

"Ah…yes, of course it was," he said hastily.

Judith gave a whoop of joy. At nine years of age, she tried to act mature, and quite often succeeded, although at times of great excitement, she still forgot. She could also do algebra with the ease of any older child, her reading level was that of a fifteen-year-old, and she was, as I had just been reminded, very good at ventriloquism.

William bounced on my knee. "Mother, that was fun! Wasn't it, Judy?"

"Yes, it was," said Judith. Now that her emotions were made plain, she was every inch a small adult, calm, quiet, and reserved. "Don't bounce, Willie." This was an oft-repeated statement, as five-year-old William was much more excitable than his older sister, and she was determined to remedy this. So was Holmes, who cherished high hopes for Judy but despaired of Willie's ever becoming a detective. "How will he conceal himself, if he bounces like that every time something good happens?" he would ask, frustrated, and I would have to remind him that small children are apt to get excited, and that Willie would likely grow out of it, just as Judith had.

"Mother, your turn!" cried Willie, still bouncing.

Judith joined in. "Yes, please, Mother!"

I looked at Holmes. "What do you think?"

"Fair enough," he agreed. "But only one story."

"All right," I said, and brought out the much-worn sock puppet. Holmes smiled to see it, just as he always did—just as I did, and always did. We both remembered what this torn, grimy toy had done for us.

"Which story do you want?" it enquired of the children now, in that familiar voice which had changed our lives so dramatically and had been the indirect cause of these children's existence.

"Aladdin!" said those beautiful creatures simultaneously.

The puppet nodded and began its tale. "Once upon a time, there was a boy named Aladdin. He lived in a faraway land, whose Sultan had a beautiful daughter, Jasmine…" They listened eagerly to the familiar story, their eyes riveted on the puppet, and I wondered again if I could really be this lucky, or if it was all a dream, and soon I would wake to be twenty-three again, in a tent in Palestine, with two Arabs and my partner snoring next door. But then, as always, my eyes really took in the glowing faces of my family, and I knew that it wasn't a dream, but was all true. And the same thought crossed my mind as always did at times like this:

Who knew what you could do with a little help from Aladdin, the genie, and puppets?


End file.
